


Ribbons in the Snow

by Rosie_Dayze



Series: A Winter with Haldir [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Affection, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Multi, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 16:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15953177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Dayze/pseuds/Rosie_Dayze
Summary: A follow up to my other Haldir and readerfic in which Haldir teaches his lover to shoot a bow.





	Ribbons in the Snow

“Patience,” he whispers in your ear, so close that you feel the breath of the word, more than the word itself.

The bow you hold creaks ever so slightly as you ease the tip of a notched arrow an iota lower. The wind whistles across your cheek. The ribbon, a target Haldir affixed to a tree more than eighty yards off, flutters desperately in the snowy morning.

“I have patience,” you whisper back.

He chuckles, and the sound of it ripples down your spine. The light touch of his fingers on your hips remind you of everything that happened the night before. A redness colors your cheeks, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

“I am my clan’s best hunter,” you remind him with a bite of pride.

“And I am Marchwarden of the Northern Borders of Lorien.” His pride matches your own. It shouldn’t add to that spark in your belly, but it does. “Patience is needed, anna.”

Anna, he calls you. Not as the human name that sounds so very similar, but with the rolling lilt of his own rich rhythm. It means ‘gift’, because that is what you are to him.

“It’s a ribbon,” you remind him, “not food. Not leather. Not fat that can be rendered into light.”

The touch of his fingers on your hips becomes more firm. He shifts the position of your body until there is a slight ache between your shoulderblades. Your body becomes as tense as the bow you draw. Your arms ache with the desire to release the arrow.

“I’m not an elf,” you remind him.

“Trust me.” he whispers. against your neck. His breath has the warmth of spring.

You do trust him. You trust him with your life, with your heart, and all things inbetween. With a deep sigh you urge your muscles to relax. The new stance feels strange, but you find you can hold it longer than the one you use. His body steps in behind yours, the long line of him curving against you.

“Are you trying to distract me?”

“I never try. I succeed.”

In spite of yourself your lips curve into a smile. The wind rises hard, but you barely feel it as your eyes focus on the still fluttering ribbon. It’s as silvery-white as the mountains around you.

“Is this really what you want to spend what little time we have doing?” you want to know.

“Any time spent with you is worth spending.”

You hear the words he doesn’t say. Three days. That’s all you get. That’s all either of you can manage without either of your people knowing what transpires between the pair of you. A dull ache builds behind your heart that has nothing to do with how you are holding your bow, or the heavy cold around you. Your mood sours.

“No creature ever stays in one place so long,” you tell him, more snap in your words than you intended.

“Not true. If a beast is unaware of you, they will spend as much time idling as any other creature.” His thumb sweeps over your side. You sense he knows why your mood has shifted.

You glance over your shoulder at him. His golden-white hair is coiled into a thick fishbone braid. You plaited it yourself that morning as he challenged you to this little test of skill. You can only assume that the silken feel of his tresses in your fingers intoxicated you for just long enough that you agreed to leave the haven of your mountain cabin to prove your bowmanship. Though it might have has something to do with him offering his bow for the test.

“Even you?” you demand.

“An elf is as much a being of the land as anything else.” He touches a hand to the base of your spine. “Now, pay attention.” It’s a request, not a command, and that softens the ache.

“Alright.”

The wind is starting to die down. The bow, taut with the desire to lose the arrow, has been in your hands so long it feels like a part of you. The smooth elven wood is softer, stronger than your own familiar weapon. The shape of a leaf was carved out of the haft. It held steady as your gaze focused in on the ribbon. You’ve heard it said that, for some hunters, the rest of the world disappears when they are looking down the line of an arrow. It has never been that way for you. You might not see the trees that line the space to your left, or the wisps of snow flurries that spill over the ridge to your right, but you are still aware of them. The ribbon, however, becomes your main focus.

You breathe out slowly. The pain between your shoulderblades eases. The stance he showed you has taken root in your muscles. Your wrapped feet are cold, but that is a distant thought. What matters is the way the wind shifts ever so slightly. The ribbon flicks out like a spill of cream against a mountain of glassy white.

You know in an instant where your arrow will have to go. You adjust just a little, barely the width of a strand of hair, but it makes all the difference when you lose the arrow. It soars. Haldir’s fingers tighten on you, tense as he watches the arc. You hold your breath.

The tear of fabric as the glimmering tip splits the ribbon is musical. You let out a whoop of triumph before surging into Haldir’s arms. They come around you, whisking you up and spinning you in a tight circle before your lips crash together. He tastes like snow and spring and sunlight. It suffuses your limbs as he carries you back to the cabin, as light on his feet as any elf.

“You don’t want me to try again?” you ask, pitching your voice over the rising wind.

“Your skills deserve to be rewarded.” There is a dark, needful light in his eyes that melts what is left of the ugly feeling in your chest. A hopeful tinge blossoms in its wake.

“Oh really?” you ask, tugging at the ribbon--twin to your recent quarry--free. His locks flutter in the breeze, sweeping across his face.

You decide later that the cold was well worth the reward.


End file.
